


Therapy

by sister_wolf



Category: Witchblade (Comic)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-14
Updated: 2003-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_wolf/pseuds/sister_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Nottingham.  Naked.  Covered in massage oil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Therapy

**Author's Note:**

> Thank-you to Eiluned-- our mutual crush on Ian Nottingham led directly to this bit o'smut.

Phoenix: Ian naked, skin slicked with oil that gleams dully in candle light  
Wolf: *thud*  
Wolf: *contemplates slicking Ian's body with almond oil* *thuds again*  
Phoenix: Oh, scented with cedar and sandalwood  
Wolf: Ian lying on his stomach on a white sheet, his hair smoothed out over a pillow. Slowly running your hands up and down his muscular back.  
Phoenix: Mmmm... all that long, silky black hair smelling of sandalwood and musk...  
Phoenix: ::pant pant::  
Wolf: Ian making little rumbling noises in his chest as you knead his shoulder muscles, working your way down along that long, long spine...  
Phoenix: ::swoons::  
Wolf: Feeling the heat of his body through your fingers and palms, the smoothness of his back, the taut, strong muscles of his body...  
Phoenix: And then he flips onto his back underneath you...

His eyes are open only a little, gleaming mysteriously in the flickering shadows of the candle.

You start to work on his shoulders again, gently kneading the heavy muscles that lead from the tops of his wide shoulders down along his breastbone to the little dip at the center of his chest. You can feel his heart beating under your fingertips, feel his chest rise and fall with his deep, calm breaths.

You know he's completely naked, though you don't trust yourself to look farther down his body, afraid that you'd lose your concentration. It's difficult enough to keep yourself calm when you smooth your palms down his chest and feel the little pebbles of his nipples.

Deciding it might be safer, you decide to concentrate on his shoulders. You brush aside a little tendril of his long, black hair that's fallen across his shoulder, controlling the strong urge to just bury your hands in that shining mass of hair.

For the first time since he walked into your massage room, he speaks. "Work on the legs." You're surprised by his voice-- he's clearly British, with that clipped tone you associate with the upper class. His voice is like smoke and silk, a rich baritone. Trying not to tremble, you move down to his legs.

You start with the feet, gently massaging the stress out of his arches. This momentary respite gives you a chance to calm yourself down. You rub naked bodies for a living-- you're a highly trained masseuse, and you thought you'd lost the ability to get turned on by a client years ago. But there's just something about this one-- his tall body is amazingly muscular, not with the bulges of a body builder, but with the toned, hard muscles of someone who uses his body in his work. What is he?, you wonder. Bodyguard? Millionaire? You don't know, and with your clientele it's safer not to, but you wish for once it could be more than just an hour of massage.

You move up to his hard calves, soothing away the tension. The warmth that's building in your body makes concentrating on your job difficult, but you try to give him the best massage you're capable of. The calves done with, you move up to his thighs, using the heels of your hands to press deep into the muscle as you stroke up his right thigh. There's no way not to look, and so you do, and feel a hammer of erotic heat deep inside your body as you notice that he is fully erect.

Your eyes dart up to his, and find that he is looking directly at you, a small smile on his face. He says nothing. You swallow with difficulty and move over to the left thigh, trying to get a handle on your rapidly swirling thoughts. What are you going to do? You're a professional masseuse, not a call girl. You could ignore his erection, finish the massage, send him out the door. But you don't want to.

He's gorgeous. Not just his face, with the high cheekbones, the cold grey eyes, the cruelly sensual mouth, not just his tall, muscular body, but also the way he moves, so smoothly controlled, like a jungle cat. This is the most attractive man you have ever seen, and in a moment you decide that it doesn't matter how much this is against the code of conduct of your profession. You want him. And it's obvious, from the hint of moisture at the head of his engorged penis, that he wants you.

You glance back up at his face and realize that he knows what you've decided. His eyes are so dark. You finish running your palms up and down his thighs, and instead of pulling the sheet over him as you would normally do, you slowly caress his narrow hips, your fingers dipping into the bowl of his pelvis. You hear a faint sigh from him as you stroke your fingertips down from his hips to the inside of his thighs.

You gently trail your fingertips from the inside of his thighs, around his balls and penis, and up the center of his pelvis to his bellybutton. Your fingers slide through a trace of pre-cum dripping from the head of his penis. You glance up at his eyes as you lick the salty pre-cum from your fingers. He's starting to breathe a little harder, and you feel a certain sense of power as you slowly lower your mouth just above the head of his penis.

He sucks in a little breath as you flick your tongue over the little slit. You slowly lick your way down his penis, getting a sense of his size-- he's big, easily eight inches. The little curls covering his balls are silky-rough, and jet black. He smells of musk, that indefinable male scent, and you can feel your panties moistening as you take a deep breath and then lick your way back up to the tip of his shaft.

You lick your way across the mushroom-shaped head of his penis, tasting more salty pre-cum in the slit. You glance up at his eyes again and watch him as you lower your mouth over the head. His eyes close and he moans a little, the sound sending another surge of heat through you. You dip your head and take as much of his shaft as you can into your mouth. He's too big to take in all the way.

Pulling back, you tongue the bundle of nerves under the head of his penis and are rewarded by a surge of pre-cum. You suck just the head of his penis, swirling your tongue around it. His hand rests gently on the back of your head, not pressing, just caressing your hair. You start setting a rhythm, sucking him in, pulling back, and you can hear his breath quickening.

The muscles in his thighs are bunching along with the rhythm of your sucking, raising his hips slightly to meet your mouth on every downstroke. You increase the speed a little. He's making little noises at the back of his throat, so quiet you almost can't hear him. His fingers are tangled in your hair.

You wrap one of your hands around the base of his penis, squeezing gently, rhythmically. You increase the intensity of your sucking. He's close. His thighs are spread slightly and he's bucking up into your mouth.

He's moaning breathily. You're tingling, burning up, and you think you might actually come from giving him a blowjob.

Suddenly he stops moaning, stops breathing, and his hand pushes down on your head as his hips buck up. You feel a strong throb through the hand on the base of his cock, and then he's coming, filling your mouth with hot salty liquid.

You feel a spasm deep within you, and you moan around his cock, feeling the rhythmic spasms of your orgasm. He's breathing again, his hand on your hair relaxing, his hips pumping a few more times as you suck his cock gently.

Finally you let his cock slip out from between your lips. You look up and meet his eyes. He's smiling at you, the most relaxed expression you've seen from him yet. He rolls on his side and slides back slightly, patting the massage table with the universal gesture for 'come lie down.' Exhausted, you climb onto your own massage table, curling into his broad chest. He strokes your hair with one hand, not saying anything.

You must have dozed off-- you wake to the sound of the door clicking shut softly. He's gone.

Stretching luxuriously, you wonder if he made any more appointments to see you. You really hope he did.


End file.
